The Dance of Demons
by Sarah the Boring
Summary: A dark laboratory, a rooftop, the rubble of Shinra HQ - three separate short stories about the same thirty-year rivalry. (If you read only one, make it 'LoG' - in fact, if you read only one of my stories, make it LoG.)
1. The Logic of Grief

**The Dance of Demons  
a series of Final Fantasy VII fan fictions  
by [Sarah the Boring][1]**  


Final Fantasy, names, characters, et cetera copyright Square Soft, Inc. The story itself is the property of the author.

  
  


**One: The Logic of Grief**

  


The night was contained in a thin thread of sound: the soft mechanical whirr of exhaust fans. Outside this there was only darkness, and a solid pistol-grip in his hand that he didn't remember picking up. A light burned far away in Gast's office, but it did not find his closed eyes. He wanted no light. Not now. The sound of his breathing was an intrusion into the tomb's silence; that alone was bad enough. Light would have been a sacrilege.

Light belonged to Lucrecia, and Lucrecia was dead.

She lay in a proper country grave in the foothills, seven thousand miles away from anywhere. Their son lay in a crib in a country inn barely worth mentioning. Their son. _Her_ son. She hadn't even touched him before she died, raving like a maniac. And Hojo could barely stand to look at him.

Lucrecia was dead, and the Project was over. The once-proud lines of his ancestors had coalesced in the tiny body of a silver-haired child which bore no resemblance to anything else on earth. Almost. There would be no more sons, for nothing women offered him would ever seem worthy. Assuming any offered...

Lucrecia was dead, her blood swimming with Mako, her skin fresh as life even after her heart had stopped. She was beautiful, even dead; his own heart had pounded as he looked down at her for the last time. Beautiful, even like this, the most beautiful thing he'd ever known.

It was the fault of that prettyboy Turk, of course. Women never resisted them and their damned self-destructive glory. They were dark stars burning themselves out as they crashed to earth, every last one of them as beautiful as a fallen angel. Valentine was no exception. His name was as perfect as a novel, his face impassive and beautiful, his voice low and smooth, offering little clues to his true thoughts. He offered nothing but mysteries, and Lucrecia had been hypnotized by that silent spell. She had been drawn in by the legendary uniform of the doomed, by his sullen dark eyes and his quiet voice—though Hojo had that, and it had not been enough. It was the destruction women craved, and in the end Lucrecia had been no more than a woman. So he reasoned.

Then Lucrecia had died, days after bearing Hojo's son, the madness which had eaten at her brain during pregnancy finally washing up in one final torrent. She had taken with her all explanations for her betrayal, and all hope of redemption. She had left the prettyboy behind, and a broken, bitter shell of a husband, and an enigmatic son. She had held them together, and their love had strangled her. It had eaten into her like acid.

He pulled back the hammer on a gun he couldn't remember picking up, a gun which held the easiest escape. Hell, then. Easy enough. The only chance for light he'd ever known was gone. She was to have been his love, his refuge, his muse, co-creator of his masterwork. Everything. He'd sunk all his dreams into her, and she had been too weak, in the end, to carry them all. She had been distracted and entranced by a beautiful dark-eyed Turk.

So he told himself, gripping the pistol in one shaking hand. It wasn't his fault; he had meant to enshrine her, not damn her. It had to be the Turk.

It had to be the Turk.

Wrong had been committed; his light had died, and with it all chance of love. And it was not his own fault.

Hojo lowered the gun, the hammer easing shakily back into place, unfired. All he could think about now was the seducer, the traitor. Valentine, the Turk.

The light flared on, and the scientist startled, his eyes straining in the sudden glare. Inside the doorway stood Valentine.

"You killed her," the Turk said.

"No." His voice was rough and thick; what had happened? He coughed and felt the slow phlegm clear from his throat. Hojo lifted his hand to run it distractedly through his hair and stopped dead as his fingers brushed the wetness on his cheeks. Anger tightened in his gut, fed by an ancient, ingrained shame. He wiped his face with his sleeve, but it was too late. His entire clan was a disgrace, traitors to the noblility of Wutai; why should a son of the cursed line be any different? Caught crying by a bodyguard, a nobody from a clan of nobodies. How fitting. The Turk had already defiled his wife; why not disgrace the husband too? "No..."

"What do you mean, 'no'? You _killed_ her, you sick bastard, you shot her full of Mako and—and something, Jenova cells, probably. Don't you remember that?"

He remembered that, of course. He remembered her pain, faint at first, then huge and streaked with madness. But he also remembered breaking into a deserted room in the Mansion, his clothes streaming with rain. An almost-deserted room, rather.

It was the Turk's fault, though the reason for this slipped elusively into the corners of his brain whenever he tried to pin it down. But he remembered dust and rain and two bodies in the half-dark, oh yes. That would never go away. Too many nights he feared to sleep for dreaming of that moment.

"I remember," he said, his voice dull and laden with poison. "I also remember you seducing my wife."

The handsome Turk made a strangled squawk of frustration. His lovely voice was rough around the edges now. "I never seduced her! She loved me, can't you see that? She—"

"She married me," the young scientist retorted. She'd married him, promised to save him. She'd never said that, but that was what it meant. She was his, never to be taken away. Never.

The Turk scoffed. "Yeah, well, everybody makes mistakes."

Hojo squeezed his eyes shut, and for the first time he fiercely, openly, wanted to hurt someone so badly they could never be made whole again.

After all, it was only fair... someone had to pay for the crime.

Time bent in on itself, folded like soft wax. He felt Lucrecia's warm fingers on his skin, saw them trailing across the toned, pale body of this cold playboy; he saw himself old, wasted, while this killer, this _thief_, lay silent and blameless in the grave. Turks always died young, that was the hell of it. They ran just short of rampant, smoked and drank and either shot or screwed anything that moved—and then met a handy escape in the form of a sniper's bullet. Whether the enemy got them or they were shot by their own for desertion, the Turks died young. They never had to slow down. They never became ridiculous.

They never paid for their crimes.

But this... oh yes, this splendid Wutaian street hoodlum dressed up behind the shield of Midgar power... he would pay dearly.

Despite the Turk bodygards, Shinra had insisted the scientists be armed. Insurance, they'd said quietly, in those closed-door meetings far off the record. They expected monsters from the hills or townsfolk with pitchforks. They hadn't expected one of their own to die. They hadn't expected grief so deep it tore apart right from wrong. They hadn't expected grief with its own cold logic, a sunless, vitriolic logic that reasoned in no uncertain terms that the death of a man's hope must be avenged by any means necessary.

If it weren't for this beautiful bastard, his wife would still live. So said the logic of grief. Somewhere in his mind whispered something much more damning, something that spoke of blame just like the Turk, but he would not listen. Not now, not ever. Not ever. Not ever.

His hand found the hard grip of the pistol, wherever it had been—or maybe it had been there all along, while the dark carved into his brain, waiting to decide between targets. Hojo couldn't remember now. He looked up into the placid, perfect face of the street-gang Turk and saw, once again, the placid, perfect face of his infant son.

He would not die young and escape the hell he'd created. Not when Hojo was damned already. He wouldn't go down alone.

He raised the gun. The prettyboy was still talking, apparently. He had ceased to care. He had ceased to care about everything. He had searched for love, and it had killed everything in him that mattered. All that was left now was science and revenge.

Hojo pulled the trigger and the Turk folded, sank to the floor, losing consciousness as his blood stained the stones.

So much for revenge.

  
  


   [1]: mailto:sarahtheboring@aol.com



	2. The Third Demon

**The Dance of Demons  
a series of Final Fantasy VII fan fictions  
by [Sarah the Boring][1]**

Final Fantasy, names, characters, et cetera copyright Square Soft, Inc. The story itself is the property of the author.

  
  


**Two: The Third Demon**

  


The draw, aim, and fire were, as always, pure instinct. He had no conscious analysis of what was happening until it had already finished; between the first accelerated, uneven heartbeats of the coming battle and the final slow lift from the red madness, conscious thought ceased and instinct, id, ruled him completely.

In that final moment, he realized that his opponent had finally ceased to breathe and slowly stood up straight, recovering from the protective stance of a longtime sniper. His travelling companions—not quite his friends, he felt he would never use that label comfortably again—stood uneasily behind him, their breath loud amid the whirr of machinery and the distant hum of gathering Mako.

Cloud blinked, swallowed, whipped his sword over his head and neatly slid it into its harness. He coughed lightly. "Vincent? I, uh, think you got him."

The shade which was once Vincent Valentine turned. His crimson cloak, now spattered almost invisibly with the dying blood of his mortal enemy, swirled around him. He looked blankly at the boy, who was obviously trying not to break into a smile. All he saw was the end of another fight.

A fight like any other, really. But only to them.

He nodded slightly in acknowledgment. The noble beast, Nanaki, lowered his head for a moment in respect, then suddenly threw it back, exposing his wide throat as it broke loose in a wild, guttural howl. Cloud looked at the Canyoner strangely; Tifa, standing next to him, crossed her arms protectively and shivered. Vincent listened to the rough music of the noble beast's howl, hearing in it, as they did not, all the anguish and anger, the justification and revenge.

_"This, which has fallen. Hear what it has done to me and mine. Because of this creature and others like it, I have suffered, and I am the only one left."_

A strange shiver of recognition crept over the former Turk's shielded heart. He felt a quiver of fear follow it, but let it pass. Yet another thing to deal with later, in solitude, in the darkness and wildness of an empty night. It would eat him alive eventually, left unchecked, but he would examine it in due time.

Before he realized that he had moved, he took an abrupt step forward, toward the Canyoner. His hand was outstretched, but Nanaki took no notice; his painful requiem lingered on one final note, hollow and cold as the wind over a grave.

_"I am the only one left."_

Vincent's cold fingers, in gloves reeking faintly of steel and gun oil, brushed the fierce mane of the silent Canyoner. He did not stroke the beast's head, as one might do with a common dog. His hand simply rested, as in a blessing, for a moment before slipping away. There was nothing he could say; Nanaki had already expressed it without words, and to frame it now in the speech of humankind—the kind which had so hurt them both—would be to mar its lonely beauty.

Nanaki lowered his head again, just for a moment. Then he turned to the group, speaking for the shade as if by instinct.

"It's over. Let us go."

With the swiftest of looks behind him, Vincent Valentine was gone, leaping from that doomed tower of steel into the roofs and walls of the Midgar slums. He rebounded from them soundlessly, and melted into the eternal shadows of the city yet another time.

In time he would return to them, to meet once again on the field as they pressed ever closer to the madman at the center of it all. But for now, he wished only for the invisibility of night and the comfort of solitude.

In time he would come to face the second demon of three: Sephiroth, the child of the woman he loved and her husband, his mortal enemy. Hojo himself was dead, and with him the only other living memory of his beloved. Now there was only her son, all that remained of her on earth....

And in time Vincent would come to fight him to the death.

But for now, he ceased to exist for a while, no more than an unsettling shadow in the edges of the night.

  
  


   [1]: mailto:sarahtheboring@aol.com



	3. The Scientist Confederate

**The Dance of Demons  
a series of Final Fantasy VII fan fictions  
by [Sarah the Boring][1]**

Final Fantasy, names, characters, et cetera copyright Square Soft, Inc. The story itself is the property of the author.

  
  


**Three: The Scientist Confederate**

  


As adept as he was at dealing out physical pain, the thought of having the sensation visited upon himself always sent him into shudders of terror. For years he'd avoided it, fleeing the heavy fists of the slum thugs into the sleek halls of Shinra Inc.—his modern monastery, his fortress, his domain. For years, everything and everyone on floor sixty-seven lived and died by his word, and no one, _no one,_ dared cause him harm. They talked, of course, but to him it meant little more than the shrill whining of mosquitoes. He was fond of the metaphor, in fact; mosquitoes tried to drink blood, but could manage to steal no more than pitiful little drops. They could never bring down a creature as big as a man.

_...or nearly as big, at any rate..._

Someone had retorted that, years ago, one of the few times he'd bothered to explain his private theorem to another person. The arguments that afternoon had been spectacular, his own escalating fury clashing with the other's eternally icy calm. But they fought with logic as well as throwing insults, and as they debated the scientist found his anger turning to a sort of sharp excitement: at last, despite the constant insolence, he could converse with a mind on his own level. The young soldier didn't know the full import of that, of course. He was driven, ambitious, his mind unclouded with earthly concerns; if he'd wished, he could, even at the age of fifteen, throw that oaf Shinra from his position and rule the corporation himself.

The young soldier, most likely, did not think of such plans. The scientist did, though. Even as the boy threatened him, dug into his mind with his comments, he proved his own merit. He was heartless, logical, and without hesitation or regret. And he had a stunning gift for finding the weaknesses of his enemies. He was a boy after the scientist's own heart. Metaphorically speaking.

The young soldier had been the last to really hurt him, though. On that afternoon he dared say what no others would say in his hearing, and by sunset, both of their voices had grown deathly cold. They never spoke after that day; the boy continued on his rise to fame—his fated, meteoric rise—without the advice of his former caretaker.

In terms of his plans, it was a dire misstep. But worse than that, it was a terrible insult...

Until now, the pain of that afternoon, which he'd kept so carefully stifled, was the worst he'd known. Compared to that, the infidelity of woman and the foolishness of man were trifles. Compared to that afternoon, he thought all other pain was insignificant.

Until now.

The lulling calm of unconsciousness shattered, plunging him into a torment far beyond any he'd suffered at the hands of his enemies. The first thing he knew was pain, and the last, and all else between. It tore through what was left of his body, already warped from the influence of the alien cells and beaten to the brink of death. The pain devoured all, leaving no nexus, no center or source to focus on. It was everywhere, in every bone, muscle and fiber of his wrecked being. He tried to twist away from it, but the pain writhed with him; he tried to scream, but it clutched his vocal chords in a stranglehold. Even thought, his last refuge, was stolen and twisted. For a few moments he tried to reason out what was happening, return to some semblance of humanity, but his thoughts were swept away in an overpowering hurricane of almost-thought and an endless, inhuman shriek of agony. Something—_the_ something, the thing whose thoughts had haunted him, unbidden, during the almost dreamless sleep of unconsciousness—something was dying. And it was taking its progeny with it...

Finally, after what seemed like an eternity of soundless chaos, the dying cry of the monster faded away. The pain that warped the scientist's body remained, but it was slowly lessening. Over the slow, slow course of what seemed like another eternity, the pain bled away, from infinite to unbearable, unbearable to horrifying, horrifying to intense, and finally, finally, to a low, constant ache. He was able to think, finally, his head clearing, his mind lifting from a red haze. Questions rose, tentatively, as if afraid to find answers: _where am I? What is happening? Am I even alive?..._

As the pain finally dulled, he lapsed back into unconsciousness. He welcomed the darkness and silence this time, almost wishing it would be the end. At the very edges of consciousness, he felt the ground under him shaking, and the tearing thunder as his world caved in. But drifting in the black water of oblivion, the scientist, who had once held to this place with almost fanatical commitment, could care less about its destruction.

Fragments of thoughts, not his own, trickled through the numb silence: _...out there...you're out there. Alive..._

_I'm alive... I know you're out there...where? I can't see you... the Meteor failed... but... you're not dead, I can feel it..._

And another, whispered under the rest, subconsciously: _I need you._

The voices—the voice, he knew it was a single entity—grew stronger, slowly, as time reeled by, outside his consideration. He could care less now what happened; apparently he was in hell already, or in some bizarre waiting room. The scientist had never believed in the modern religious concept of hell, nor in the infinite-renewal beliefs of the Ancients. He had always considered himself too intelligent, too rational for that. Now, in a dazed, dreamlike way, he wished for the nothingness his rational beliefs had promised.

He was almost disgusted by the return of sensation. Pain came first, which was to be expected by this point. Then dizziness, and pressure under what used to be his back, as he was lifted into the air... and finally, after what seemed like years, his leaden eyelids slid open a crack to let in a searing white light. He shut them again, whimpering involuntarily, and the ground smashed into his body again. He rolled over onto his stomach, lurching as waves of nausea racked his newly regained stomach and regurgitated acid splashed onto the broken rock. The once-scientist, now no more than a wreck of a man, heaved over onto his back into cleaner ground and lay gasping in the sulfuric air. The light still stung his eyes, but he squinted up into it. His usually poor eyesight was not helped by the glare.

A tongue-click of distaste flicked somewhere above his head. He shut his eyes again, just as a dark blur swam into his pained sight. The person—if it was a person—prodded him in the ribs with one foot, triggering an explosion of pain. He groaned aloud, raising his arm with considerable effort to clutch at the stabbing ache in his temples.

"It's you," a voice—a real voice—said quietly. "Or what's left of you...it is you, isn't it? No one else could have survived that. Not without..." The voice paused, as if unwilling to speak the name. "Jenova."

The scientist gasped, his eyes snapping open for an instant, flooded with light. He caught a watery, nearsighted glimpse of someone standing over him, someone very tall, with glowing eyes...

At last, gritting his teeth against the complaints from every muscle, he pulled himself up to a sitting position. _You were nearly the ruler of the world, you fool,_ he thought bitterly. _Show a little dignity._

"It _is_ you," the voice said, more firmly. There was a rustling sound, and the voice spoke again from his own level. "Hojo. Shinji Hojo, head of the biological research department of the late Shinra."

Hojo coughed wetly. "The late Shinra?" he rasped.

"Yes. It's all gone, as far as I know... except for the turncoat Reeve... some scattered Turks... and you." The voice, so familiar to him now, took on an even more familiar sardonic hue. "You're barely worth saving," the other remarked dryly. "But I need you..."

  
  


* * *

  
  


Yes, that's how it ends. ^_^; These were actually written in the reverse order that they appear here, but I wanted to rearrange them in roughly chronological order. In my opinion they also run backwards in terms of quality—"Logic" is the best, "Scientist" the worst—but that's just me. The last two pieces, "Third Demon" and "Scientist", were auditions for message-board-based RP's that I ended up not participating in; only "Logic" was written as a vignette. It borrowed heavily from the notes for a story I've yet to write, but none are actually part of a larger story.

That's about all I can say. Dull, but these are pretty straightforward. Thanks for reading. :D -StB

   [1]: mailto:sarahtheboring@aol.com



End file.
